The Reverse Draft

Baseball season is afoot, and with it comes the hat of coaching that David so willingly picks up for his boys.  This year, Collin's league involves an evaluation of around 100 boys who, in a day or two, will be drafted on to a team.

David is meticulous about stats and has ranked in an extensive spreadsheet his evaluation notes and a calibrated top 100 from the first draft pick down to the last, mostly according to observed technical skill or personal knowledge of the player.

Yep, the subject of drafting players hangs heavy in this house.

So tonight I was chatting with my girlie chatterbox because in middle school, many small details and incidents must be hashed and rehashed before the day might officially end. 

She told me, after months of waiting, she finally was tapped to be team captain in PE, which meant she got the power position of drafting her team for dodgeball.   

Well, I said, who did you pick?  The super sporty 8th grade boy?  The cool hip 7th grader who hardly gives you the time of day, but might start liking you if you picked her first?  The older, cute girl who you want to impress? Who then, pray tell?

Her reply: Mom, I decided to go in reverse for once.  You know, to pick the ones who always come last.

A reverse draft?

Apparently so. After ceding the first pick to the other captain, she called up as a coveted top pick the sweet girl adopted from a foreign orphanage who, because of a slight disability, could only move slowly from here to there.  Not exactly the most competitive selection for a winning lineup.

Oh boy Mom, she was so excited.

Then she called the girl with Asperger's, who shouts out in class, never quite brushes all of her hair, and acts- shall we say- different.

We all stand together and wait, crying inside to be chosen.

After that came a series of non-sporty, quiet girls with braces.  

Apparently God blessed this selection, because they fared pretty well against all the jocks and popular coolkats who ended up on the other squad.

So I'm ending this long day pondering how a child can be taught many subjects and facts, but is she also learning lessons of kindness and love?  Can a hyper-sensitive middle school mind see beyond the staged and sometimes-thorny outer shell of a fellow teen and right into the prism-like beauty of that person's heart? 

Such unexpected love for others must certainly originate with the One who first ran the reverse draft.  You know, the heavenly team captain who, century after century, picked the rejected (Jesus), the prostitute (Rahab), the elderly (Abraham and Sarah), the runt of the litter (King David) as the All-Stars for His team.

And although I am pleased with her numerous 7th grade accomplishments, I am convinced that her memorable draft will go down as one of the most meaningful successes of all.

A Missive from an Introvert

I packed bulky bags and Christmas gifts in my white Camaro convertible to return to Vanderbilt about this time a whopping 23 years ago.  Carefully hung in the back seat were a myriad of cute outfits with square yellow post-its pinned to them.  In my sister's loopy writing, they spoke loud and clear:

"Wear this sweater with the suede skirt, concho earrings, boots" 

"Goes with long skirt but not with anything pleated" 

"Do NOT button to the top"

"Needs a long necklace"

"Pearls only"

These firm directives were meant to steer a well-known introvert (me) through Rush Week, a week that still plays on a tortuous loop in my head.

That week--it showcased how my conversations begin normal enough but careen and wobble into no-mans land in a way that well-accessorized, Texas-approved outfits and smooth bobbed hair cannot not cover.  

For instance, in the Theta house, a preppy, peppy rush chairman asked me about my hall mates.  "Well, I'm actually worried about that," I said.  "One girl seems like she's anorexic.  She will only eat pale green apples, and that's all!  She is wasting away. I've taken her to Kroger and all she will buy are those apples, or come home with nothing if they're out of stock. I'm concerned--what do you think I can do to help?" 

Crickets.

Then: "Okay, Kristin!  Let me introduce you to Mary-Martha! I think you both have Popovich for Survey of Western Art!  Sooooo nice to meet you, Kristin!  Remember you can Fly High with Theta!"

In spite of all the post-it notes and awkward chitchat, I was grateful to pledge Chi Omega,
 a sorority that spoke my love language with the slogan "GET REAL: Chi-O".   

Such is the awkward life of an introspective introvert.  I think if you polled a group of us (which would be like pulling teeth), you would find some common themes and opinions.  I'm going to put five of them out there for public consumption, if for nothing else but as therapy for this long-ago week when my social shortcomings took center stage.

Number One:  Inauthentic social situations are torture.  Rush rounds have given way to committee meetings and client dinners, so I live the same song, different dance in a world that favors small talk and light banter.  There is hardly anything I dislike more than a committee meeting, but setting that aside, I still find it very hard to even have superficial parking lot conversations at drop off.  (Truly, I switched preschools for one that involved loading children directly into my running vehicle.)  My difficulty exists primarily because I bump into people while my thought processes are fully engrossed in something that happened earlier that morning, last night, or even years ago, for Pete's sake.  I mull past conversations and interactions over in my mind, consider better responses, or even pray or dwelling on a scripture that won't leave my head.  Thus, when confronted with small talk, I usually can only come up with a blank stare or a stilted, pathetic response.  I've noticed that this introvert's ability to flip on the conversation light at will has diminished greatly with older age.

Number Two: Staying home sounds great.  I can just be myself at home, even though with six bunk mates and a dog, it's hard to say I'm ever quite alone.  My world feels more normal here, and the limits on required social interactions keep things on an even keel. I can think a thought to its natural and full conclusion (unless the toilet is overflowing or children are jousting over who gets the last cookie). Recently, I decided to pull off the introvert's version of going out and had three close friends come over for a girls night in.  We could lean back in comfy chairs, put our feet up on the coffee table, drink too much wine, and laugh obnoxiously loud rather than get dolled up, hire sitters, and sit around a crowded establishment semi-shouting across the table.  It was one of the most enjoyable moments of my Christmas vacation.  

Number Three:  Less talking is better.  While there's a lot rumbling through in introvert's head, the effort to get it all articulated through conversation looms large.  On high-word-count days, I sometimes run out of the will to talk, to be honest.  My kids can attest to those nights where I've held up my hands and said "Mom's out of words today", which is the BatSignal for a quick and quiet tuck in and goodnight.  They've accepted it as one of my (many) quirks, and I've accepted this big, extroverted, noise-loving brood as a clear indication that God's sense of humor is alive and well.

Number Four:  Less talking is better, unless more feels right.  Apparently I'm a contrarian in addition to an introvert, because there are rare days I can talk a blue streak, when all the thoughts and words come tumbling out.  I also really enjoy deeper conversations with a few dear friends that have been in my life for many years. I suppose this is in part because we can pick up a genuine line of conversation without any small talk, and also due to the fact that these kind folk have accepted me for who I am and know that despite my idiosyncrasies, I truly care about them.

Number Five:  Love us anyway.  One of the tough byproducts of being an introvert is the sense of isolation it brings.  I regularly am in groups of people I know and still felt very alone. Because of this, my relationship with Jesus has been an integral part of my life from a very young age.  Even when I feel solitude, I can honestly say that in the depth of my heart I know God is with me, loving me every moment of the day, social gaffes and all.  And the friends who persevere with loving me--including the mismatched outfits, blunders, and blank stares--they are quiet balms helping me through this noisy, rush-filled world. 

Picking the Apple: How We Are Parenting Technology

I have been thinking long and hard about a famous story.  The story goes like this:

There was once an apple that changed the world, but not for the better.  That apple gave humans access to the knowledge of good and evil, and it destroyed our most valued relationships, with God and with each other.

 No---wait.  That's not the story I want to tell.  It goes more like this:

There was once an Apple that changed the world, but not for the better.  That Apple gave humans access to the knowledge of good and evil, and it destroyed our most valued relationships, with God and with each other.

Pretend like this cool pic has iPhones, Mini's, and iPads,
not innocent little nanos and shuffles.  I happen to love the music playing options.

I know this post is starting out a bit radical.  Maybe I am becoming a radical, although I've always viewed myself as a fairly normal, mainstream kind of gal.  The thing is--I find myself trying to forge a new path through the technology wilderness in an era when technology is a silent and often unacknowledged danger.  I'm no published expert on the speaker circuit, just a mere foot soldier in the battle.  But for the public record, I'd like to report the truth as I see it happening from the front lines of modern parenting.

We do own Apple products, in fact my 40th birthday gift was an iPad.  I've found that my daughter (7th grade) could care less about gaming or goofing around on touch screen technology and dislikes even reading on the Kindle.  She does do computer programming and a little game coding on the laptop, but this is a "creative" tool for her.  In other words, she uses technology not for entertainment, but as one would use a brush and paints:  to make something new out of nothing.  I'm all for that kind of activity.

My son (5th grade), however, loves to do anything that involves computer gaming.  He used to be hooked on the Wii, and when we got the iPad, he started small with apps like Scribble and Pop Math, which seemed innocent enough.  But all addictions start small, don't they?   Ask any addict of anything at all how it started, and I'll wager it was with something simple and seemingly safe.

With my son, he initially found himself mesmerized by the bright flashing features, the cool sounds, the constant motion on the screen.  Then he was sucked into gaming even deeper by his natural inclination to be loyal, even loyal to a digital team. The push notifications asking him to come back to play or telling him his troops were ready for battle (Clash of Clans) were like an alcoholic smelling the beer from outside the bar.  Despite his inner desire to restrain himself, he was constantly lured in for more (Romans 7:19).

I thought it was just a boy's fun.  That is, until I got my Visa bill one day and there were many, many charges of $9.99, $50, $100, that came to almost $3,000, all charged to my iTunes account that month.  I thought for sure my account had been hacked.  I only have bought a few songs here and there through the years, never anything more than a dollar or so a month.  Looking back, I was such a sucker to let a naive little boy on something as powerful as touch technology linked to a credit card account. 

The source was Baseball Superstars, which I thought it was a simple sports app, but that was a completely wrong assumption.  Doing more research after the fact, I discovered it really targets adult gamers and addictive gambler types.  As he got more advanced in the game, he was being asked to buy his team new uniforms on Baseball Superstars, give them massages, help them with special practices, all of which were bought with "points" that he thought were earned during the game but in reality were REAL LIVE MONEY being charged to my card.  Ouch and double ouch.

The slithering snake of deception, the one that preys on the young and vulnerable, reached right through that iPhone and bit me hard.

We warned him about passwords and such, gave him punishments of various sorts, and restricted the technology in his life (and he has never owned his own touch technology, just to be clear), but again and again we would see him fall into the same patterns of an addict: thinking about gaming the first thing when he woke up, sneaking my phone, hiding in the bathroom, lying to me.  If you know him, you would likely agree that these characteristics are not at all reflective of his usual personality.

To save him from himself, he is now off technology completely.  What else could we logically do?  There cannot be "a little on the weekend" or "just on the car trip."   He cannot take a single sip or he will fall off the wagon again.  It's a hard line to take as a parent when this very technology surrounds him, resides in his home, and permeates the lives of his friends.

Why so radical, you say?

Because touch technology will rob him of everything good in his life if we don't stand firm.

It will rob him of laughing in the kitchen with me, fully engaged and present in the conversation.  It will rob him of good academics and quiet times alone when he can think and reflect.  It will dissolve the lasting richness of in-person friendships and the satisfying small moments of wrestling around with his brother and talking football strategy with his dad.  It will rob him of nothing less than joy.

Kyle Strobel put it this way:

I think one of the most difficult aspects of being an American Christian is trusting that Jesus is right and that our culture is selling us something that ultimately isn’t a valid way to be joyful — and is actually the very thing that destroys joy. 

I love him too much to let him eat the Apple, only to be consumed whole by it in return.  Shockingly, apparently Steve Jobs agrees with me.  Did you know he didn't allow his own children to use the very iPad he created?  It's true--read it here.

And what of my son's friends and my daughter's friends, all of whom own touch technology?  That is for their parents to decide, but for now I am firm that my children will not go on overnights with children who have these products to use freely.  I will not have my son in a friend's basement, essentially unsupervised, with his buddy's iPad Mini where they will have access to things like pornography at a single tap.  While I absolutely cannot see my son initiating this kind of behavior, wouldn't it be easy for the other kids present to pull up?  I try to be very in touch with him, but how in the world can I possibly know and trust the private thought lives of his (also immature and vulnerable) friends?

Moreover, I find that I am in the thin sliver of minority when it comes to parenting technology and social media.  I ask other parents out of curiosity: "Why does such-and-such own this?  What are you thoughts on him/her having it?"  Or "Is this username trying to friend me on Instagram your son/daughter?"  One reply I hear frequently: "Well, they begged me to get them an account, so it's okay that they are under the age allowed on Instagram." Or I also am told, "Johnny bought it with his own allowance that he saved for a whole year, so how could I say no?"  Which leads me to my next question, one that I hardly ever ask aloud but put before myself on a regular basis: "Who is in God-given control of this relationship?  You or your child?"

I may sound alarmist, but my mama instinct is sounding off that there is untold danger of the self-inflicted kind ahead for my children's generation.  Although The Screwtape Letters was published in 1942, C.S. Lewis sounds downright contemporary in writing:

It does not matter how small the sins are provided that their cumulative effect is to edge the man away from the Light and out into the Nothing.  Murder is no better than cards if cards can do the trick.  Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one--the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.

Or, if I may be so bold as to add on to Master Lewis:

Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one--the gentle glowing screen, the easy to use apps, the smooth digital world without sudden jolts, without thinking minds, without limits on knowledge or images, without the Holy Spirit, without love....

So, how about you, fellow parents?  How do you manage this complicated issue in your home?

Food for thought: 
how would you describe someone who boldly holds out an Apple to us that he won't 
even allow in his own children's hands within his own home?

Thoughts on 42

The little one's blonde curls gleam in the twilight as he peddles his trike fast. The young'un with new skates asks for help with a buckle, so I kneel before him while the gravel bites my 41-year-old knees.

42 next week.

I stand up slowly and watch the five children slide up and down the driveway as the daylight dims and can't help but recall the young, young years, when I thought I had all the time there was to do whatever I liked.  The days on our shady street crept by so slowly that I had plenty of time to wonder if Miss Piggy would be on my cake and whether Mom would make the seven minute icing so I could taste what love is.

I am almost 42 and my knees ache and every day I bow before skate buckles and laundry and bills and spilled juice on the new rug.  I have no more chances to decorate my bike with crepe paper and parade the block with all my friends in tow.

I am old and serious now.

I do not skip down the street to piano lessons while eating homemade cookie dough or play hide and seek in the wide gutters along my sheltered road.  I no longer daydream on a velvet couch about what my husband will look like and whether I'll have a girl and yes, if I do, I shall name her Amanda Jane and her eyes will be brown, just like mine.

Instead, I grip the phone in grief when I learn my best friend has cancer and bang my palm on the table when I hear about another broken-apart marriage.  I cry over private heartaches of those I love and the shortening breaths of a grandfather much adored.

The candles--they glow dimmer at 42.

So I feel content to sit in the strange coolness of a summer evening and watch happy children skate.  When they fall, I know gratitude that their only care today is a skinned knee and who is the fastest and what's for dinner. I watch the treeline darken and the sky glow blue and, when I see the jet shooting a glistening thread overhead, I am reminded of you, God.

At 42, I accept that sweet-smelling baby curls will never come my way again.  I have been entrusted with five treasures, and I will try to raise them to be noble men and women who eventually park their skates and board the planes and leave this home in a golden streak of light.

At 42, I know the answers to much of my story, making it easier to release the carefree days that were filled with childlike wonderings about the future.  I live here, in this house, with these children and their carefully-given names. I relish each day of marriage to a man who has loved me for 23 years and who has gained my respect through integrity and wisdom.

As I put away stray balls, I watch my husband turn into home and travel the long driveway with children running behind.   The car door flings open and the littlest one shouts "Dada!" and stretches his arms as wide as they can go.  Five sets of hands jostle for a touch or a hug and the dog barks from behind the glass pane because she knows who is home.

Following them inside, I walk up the porch, open the heavy door, and cross the threshold to begin dinner.  Inside I feel peace.

For the rest of the story, it's now only beginning.

Declarations in July

One thing I dearly love about Monticello is the relentlessness with which Thomas Jefferson pursued knowledge.  Visitors cannot help but feel this burning pursuit in the design of his home, his broadly curated collections, the forward-thinking gadgets he invented for each room, and the careful preservation and experimentation he conducted involving seeds and plants in his gardens.

I've toured Monticello enough to have a favorite feature:  the crafty method Jefferson employed to magnify the limited sunlight provided to his electricity-free dwelling by placing large mirrors in direct opposition to windows and even painting his dining room an 18-century equivalent of safety yellow.

Florescent paint plus unrefrigerated vittles and homemade moonshine--well, that particular combo sums up patriot courage, folks.

The most impressive sight is his personal room, which includes an odd niche bed and rows upon rows of leather bound books. Ahhh, they are quite magnificent.  He read in seven languages and occupied himself with every range and substantial topic imaginable.

"A mind always employed is always happy,"  he was known to say.

Upon consideration of Jefferson's July 4th claim to fame, The Declaration of Independence, plus my fifth (yes, fifth.  I basically lugged five infants and/or my pregnant self through this place. Mercifully the policy is "age two and under are free.") visit to Monticello has inspired four personal July resolutions, or "declarations," if you will:

• Declaration #1:  I pledge to be more curious about the world.  I might not organize heirloom seed collections, but I promise to purchase other flavors of Goldfish than cheddar cheese, plunge my bare hands into murky pool skimmer baskets without hesitation, and actually examine the frog species presented to me before screaming.

• Declaration #2:  I will arrange and re-arrange my home with an eye for function above all, yet still with the goal of beauty.  This declaration is not limited to preserving years of personal collecting by tethering up the towering Christmas tree with clear fishing line anchored to wall studs.  Why such lengths?  Only what's necessary to prevent middle-of-the-night collapses from all manner of sports balls that batter my favorite decorations.  (You know, those irreplaceable Baccarat ones dating to 1984.)

• Declaration #3:  I will surround myself with books that I've held off reading because of the wee ones in hopes that I can catch a page or two each day.  "I cannot live without books," TJ would high-handedly tell you.  Currently stacked on my nightstand are Sacred Rhythms by Ruth Haley Barton, Wordsmithy by Douglas Wilson, and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish by the slightly-creepy Dr. Seuss.  I also am kicking around the idea of reading everything assigned to my seventh grader this year, who will be entering an Omnibus class on early medieval literature.  Hey, Jefferson would be proud!

• Declaration #4:  I will go to great personal sacrifice for my flowers to bloom beautifully.  That is, I promise to stand in fifty percent humidity under the sweltering Southern sun to water my pots, whisky barrels, and urns containing blooms from Home Depot that the salesperson may or may not have begged me not to buy.  I pledge a sister commitment to not disclose to even my husband when those browned, arid flower stalks are thrown in the trash bin and replaced by their fresh, dewy-faced twins. (Shhhhh.)

Goodbye for this year, Monticello. Thanks for your annual inspiration, and I'll catch you again when I'm twelve months older, much less gray, ten pounds lighter, have conquered new intellectual challenges and can claim to be significantly more well-read.....

~ ~ ~ 

 *All photo creds to Madeleine Roberts.  Alas, I was too busy chasing down a dropped binky, searching for a missing green Croc, and lugging around a fussy toddler to do much thoughtful photography.  

My most sincere apologies to anyone visiting on the 4:10pm tour that day.

Simply Showing Up

Those of you who subscribe to this blog by email know the mixed emotions I had about Vacation Bible School, for which I volunteered this summer.  I posted a lengthy exposition about my conflicting thoughts which has subsequently been squirreled away in the hidden "things I write but would be wise not to publish" file.

However, suffice it to say that I did have a lot of introspective questioning going on in my mind the entire week of VBS.  Forgive me.  I'm hard-wired to evaluate everything.

That said, I was matched with some precious 8-year olds who were pretty darn fun to be around and assigned a shy, mild-mannered middle school assistant named Luke.  All of these small folk were strangers to me before the week began but by the end we were hugging and high-fiving together.  They graciously looked the other way when I flung myself into the wrong hand motions and generally zigged when they zagged during the group song time.  Kids can be forgiving around geeky middle-aged adults if you give them plenty of snacks, smiles, and encouragement.

I finished the week feeling positive and hopeful but slightly unsure whether the little kids in Group #19 had moved forward in their spiritual walks.  Ever the pessimist, I am.

So imagine my surprise when I trudged to the mailbox tonight, tuckered out from a hot two-hour swim meet and the tedious drudgery of turning over my kids' closets all day, only to find a letter hand-addressed to me in creaky, unfamiliar writing.  Here is what it said:

      Dear Christin,

                I want to thank you for the love and encouragement that you showed my 
               grandson Luke at VBS this year. 

               You will never know what a positive influence you were to him.  

              God bless you for lifting his self esteem.  I am praying blessings over you.

                                                                                                        Sincerely, 
                                                                                                        Luke's Grandmother

Luke?  Ahhhh--Luke, my middle school helper.  The sweet guy who I brought a cold Coke in my Vera lunchbag every day as a meager thanks for him playing soccer in the scalding sun when I desperately wanted to sit quiet in the shade. The person who clearly loved being around little kids and showed it by eagerly helping with their crafts and projects.  The fella I couldn't help but tell every morning how grateful I was to get to hang out with him and how terrific he was with younger children.

I didn't pay attention to any of that interaction.  I was too focused on the place I thought God needed me to be at work: the VBS children.  So....what if I wasn't there for the kiddies at all, but instead for a young man who needed a kind word?  I never thought much about it that possibility, but I sure am thinking it over tonight.

I am reminded for about the millionth time: service boils down to showing up with a willing heart.  It's that simple.  Next time instead of fretting, I'll  leave it to God about what he intends to do with my meager efforts.  I am pretty sure about one thing: it will not be what I expect.

In the meantime, I'll be squirreling this reminder away in another file, just to remind me when VBS rolls around again...

So Many Kids: What Gives?

Today at my favorite Publix, I checked out almost needing two carts since the summer elves have taken up residence and eaten me out of house and home.  I had a light crew with me this morning: only the baby, the newly-six year old and the seven year old.  As so frequently happens, the cashier eyed us thoughtfully, taking in the baby gumming his black checkout pen, the other child flipping through my open wallet like a teenager, and the third shiftily looking back and forth at the Redbox while brushing soggy free-cookie crumbs off his mouth with the back of his hand.

And like I have heard almost every single day over the past six or so years, he commented:  "Ma'am, you sure have your hands full."

Oh, how I have sought to come up with the perfect reply to this deft observation.  Not because I desire to be unkind, but because there is so much I would love share in earnest reply.  Today, I simply looked him in the eye and said: "Not really. There are two more at home," to which he could only glance at me with deflected pity and continue to scan.

This comment can be topped by the time I was in Walmart, eight months pregnant in a balloonish tent dress, pushing a 1 year old baby sucking two pacifiers at once, with several energetic preschoolers clinging to the metal sides of the cart.  Some well-meaning devout stranger put her hand on my arm at the checkout, leaned over and confidentially asked, "Aren't you so excited about the Pope coming to America next week?"  To which this Methodist mama with pregnancy-brain could only sputter: huh?

I admit in the general populace in modern America, it is unusual to see larger families. The diapers, the potty training, the forgotten putrid sippy cup under the passenger seat all the way through the mass feedings, chaotic sports schedules, wacky adolescent hormones and the jaw-dropping cost of college--it really is quite a lot to wrap your mind around.  I am always floored at my dental bill when I take all the kids at once.  I mean, really!  False teeth might cost less in the long run.

All hassles aside, having this many children comes down to one thing for me:  purpose.  At a certain point, the hubs and I came to realize that part of our purpose on Earth was connected to raising children in a Christian home, with a prayerful desire that they eventually go out into the world reflecting Christ in an authentic, respectful and intelligent manner.  So we went "all in" for this purpose, and now we sit here with five and absolutely no regrets.

The old adage is true: it's unlikely that someone will lie on their deathbed lamenting I had too many children! Woe is me!

And, to be honest, we like our kids. No need to overcomplicate things; there was no master plan.  We liked the first one so much that we had the second. We liked the second so much we had the third.  And so forth.

We want to be with them, we enjoy the process of raising them, we savor the chances for all of us to be together under one roof.  There simply is no shortage of entertainment with this many funny folks, nor any shortage of marvel at the people they are becoming.

I know without a doubt that God has great plans for their lives, and I am very interested in being a part of His plan with the days I have been given.

My fortieth birthday, three weeks before the birth of #5. 
Gifted with tooth fairy money, this chair is physical proof that there is a teeny tiny 
return on investment for costly dental care. 

So to the clerk in Publix, our ever-patient pediatrician (who I saw twice on squeeze-in appointments in the last 48 hours), the beleaguered Honda salesman, the transient lawn helpers, and anyone else wondering what faulty birth control must be going on with this many children under one roof, I say: there is nothing in life more satisfying than living out your calling.

This happens to be mine and I joyfully accept it, even as my two college diplomas gather dust in the closet, the noise decibels in our home exceed the legal limit, and the dog was hand-fed a bag of party-size Fritos by the toddler for breakfast.

Yes, despite the shock of uncovering a secret trove of live frogs in someone's pink bedroom only this morning, I would not say I have full hands.

Only a full heart.

All Tucked in Their Beds

I just made my middle-of-the-night rounds, checking to see that the covers were pulled up and heads were straight on pillows and favorite blankies were within arm's reach, and now I can't pull up my own covers and get back to sleep.

There is a groundswell of excitement in our home this weekend, and I've been trying to put words to what we are all feeling as summer breaks upon us.  I suppose it's the sense that Time itself is rolling out, a deep carpet of limitless ocean.  

We find ourselves on the brink of relentless heat and careless joys and fewer responsibilities, and it feels grand.  It most certainly seems like a never-ending reserve, this time, and surely it might allow for some fiddling around in its great expansive space that stretches to the very horizon, one that makes us feel small and enveloped and like we will never reach the end of it.

This feeling I relish even though I know it is the Great Deceiver, the very reason we turn to television and iPads and pretty magazines and yesterday's paper rather than towards each other.

But for tonight I rest content knowing where the hearts I love are sleeping.  I am certain they had a square meal for dinner and their teeth were brushed and they each were hugged before drifting to sleep with the dim nightlight casting peaceful shadows.

For tonight, their breaths rise and fall within the confines of my home, in a comfortable place where the alarm is armed and the air conditioning hums.

In this quiet dark, their parents lie beside each other on familiar pillows with the fan always on, and I know even though the trough of my bed curves deep that if I sleep right there, just so, they can find me in the dark.

We are safe.

But in a certain number of tomorrows, we will be spread out by obligations and the secure space of this home will be breached by impending adulthood and responsibilities and expectations that will suck them right away out of their cozy beds and into harsh reality, where sheets aren't pulled to their chins in the midnight silence and where favorite foods become an issue of what's in the monthly budget rather than a delicious and familiar something waiting for them on a tray when they expectantly open up the big refrigerator door.

I pondered this swelling sensation of time as we spent several hours at the local retirement community today.  I watched the walkers roll to and fro, filling the elevators and lining the halls with their own slow-wheeled traffic.  I saw many silver-haired strangers with bowed backs that have been so shaped by time that they strained to lift their chins at the thunder of feet as my children curved around their lane and ran ahead in their Sunday best, leaving a flood of memories in their wake.

"All my babies are in their sixties," one spry fellow in a beret confided to me as my children stormed past.  "Well done," I replied back, unsure of what else to say as I stared at his sloping black hat and he watched my kids turn the far corner and move out of sight.  "I'll be saying that before you know it," I told him.

And I will.

"All we have to decide 

is what to do 

with the time that is given us.”

Gandalf, Fellowship of the Rings

What to Say About Five Kids at Home 24/7?

~ ~ ~

Prologue

Once upon a time, quite some time ago, there lived a fair maiden by the name of Lydia. She had the potential to be pretty, one might say, with her long, brown curls and blue eyes, but years of hard labor had darkened her skin and destroyed her once beautiful hands.

As far back as she could recall, she had been enslaved to the king and queen of France, her home country, and worked countless hours tending to the horses. She did not mind the work at all: she had learned to love it, even if it had provided her with no money. However, the queen grew jealous of her beauty and sought to destroy her sunny disposition by whatever means possible.

So, Lydia was often given more work than the other servants and was not respected at all, and on this note begins this particular tale.

~ ~ ~

One brisk evening, enveloped in the French winter of 1127, Lydia was walking to the stables to groom the horses. She was deep in thought of the previous night, her seventeenth birthday, when she had received a Bible from her friends. She had always been a Christian, and was elated to read it. 

Suddenly, she stopped, and if anyone had been looking on at the scene, they would have been almost as horrified at her expression as she was at the sight before her. There was a new groomer tending to the horses, and she had no doubt in her head that this was the queen’s doing. She had loved this job: in her eyes, it was a small ray of sunshine, a tiny delight in her miserable world. 

Lydia ran. She dodged other servants and dashed up several flights of stairs until she stood in front of the large, wooden door that gave way to the throne room.  She knew that if she seemed upset, the queen would be even more proud of herself.  She realized she had to seem calm and composed, even if she was about to cry.  Lydia opened the door.

~ ~ ~

Wondering what happens next, hmmm??  Me, too!  This is not my writing, but a little noodling around by my eldest, written in about 20 minutes of spare time.  Needless to say, I am very much looking forward to reading more of her words and encouraging in the upcoming months the pleasure she takes in spinning a yarn.  

To summer, which starts tomorrow in our household, I say welcome.

Someone out there just read those words and - upon considering how life might be with five active kids, a large dog, and a perennially tired mom cooped up in the house for the summer - flinched slightly.  I understand how it might be possible to envision tedious misery, squabbling, dirty diapers, and persistently messy rooms.  And to a certain degree, all of those moments will happen, but I do have a plan, and I have learned from hard-fought experience that a plan is key.

What's on tap for summer 2014?  My 12-year old wants to work on writing, so she is starting The One Year Adventure Novel, a curriculum to take her through all the steps of storytelling, with the end product being a self-written novel. She is fired up to begin and has already decided on the setting and era.

We will also be doing Geometry with the oldest two, for which I am detecting a high degree of interest. I picked up the book last week and a certain someone discovered it, whisked it away, assembled a notebook, and completed the first lesson.  The two younger kids will be doing Saxon math with their big brother/sister tutoring team, the cheapest and perhaps best help I could possibly rustle up.

Science also made the list: the whole gang is doing Oceanography 101.  I purchased the text and we have plans for field trips (hey, this is Florida!) as we get deeper in the curriculum.  This topic has particularly captivated my third child, who is a tough nut when it comes to academics but is passionate about shells, water, and anything critter-related.

On the sports front, my fourth child passed his swim team test last week and is officially joining his siblings for swim workouts and meets three to four times a week.  This piece of the plan is a critical way to take the edge off of the abundant energy present in my household.  All four are also slated for triathlon activity, having been inspired by the tri the older kids completed this weekend.  I even found them sneaking a Sharpie and body-marking the baby and themselves, for which they were roundly scolded (although I admit I was extremely amused.)

In between all of this structured brain and body activity, there will be lots of cannonballs in the pool, sleeping in, badminton rounds in the front yard, lego constructions, sidewalk chalk, and pillow forts.  All the while, Kate Middleton will be wondering where in the Sam Hill all her quiet doggie-napping days have gone.

Summer 2014, bring on your happy, hot madness.  This mama is ready!

The Beautiful Mind

When I was growing up, there was a magic number in my brain that quantified who I was, which happened to be my IQ score.  I'm not sure how I came across it, but it stuck with me.  It became a defining factor in how I perceived myself. And in retrospect, I am angered that my mind was ever defined by a number.

Yet, history repeats itself as this week I am getting data back on my kids that seeks to define in a standardized way what is contained in their minds.  For instance, yesterday, Madeleine had to head over to the local public middle school to take a tedious three-hour algebra exam that is offered statewide with the intent of capturing whether the subject was sufficiently mastered to the satisfaction of the government powers that be. I have difficulty believing that this score will reflect the true depth of her conceptual abilities, but will rather be a superficial measurement skimming along a breadth of skills.

We also have started to receive from our school the Stanford Achievement Test scores, which are intended to help us as parents know that our children are progressing according to grade level and are an expected and appropriate endeavor for any academic institution.

So I'm looking at all these scores on the page and the National Grade Percentile Bands and Clusters and Performance Standard Categories and rows upon rows of digits, digits, digits and I want to ask this important question, of myself and the IQ number I can't shake (along with my own SAT), as well as to my children:

What test can quantify the mind, placed within us by God himself?  

Who can truly assign a number and a ranking to this complex masterpiece we have been given?  

Because every single day, I see in my children the Beautiful Mind unfolding in such a myriad of ways that I cannot fathom how anyone dares try to measure it's creativity and depth and adaptability.

When a child sits down and writes a lullaby on the piano for her baby brother, there is no number to capture the complexity of love and ability brought together in that moment.  Deciding one sunny afternoon to self-teach computer coding, how can you attach a figure to the inclination and boldness and receptiveness of a mind like that?

When that same child turns a phrase in an essay that makes me pause from the surprising stirring of emotions within me, or hides away in the sewing room busy recycling a dryer sheet and a deflated mylar balloon to stitch up a regal outfit for her doll, there is no standard of measurement that quantifies how creative, how unusual, how mutually earth-friendly and technically well made that effort really is.

So when I sat down to look over the SAT scores with Madeleine last night, on the heels of this state standardized algebra test, I told her point blank, without mincing words: school, grades, tests, assessments, these are all necessary parts of modern life, but will never be any measure of the Beautiful Mind God has given to her.  I pleaded with her not to rest in these numbers or tie her self-worth to any flat quantitative analysis as an accurate reflection of the three-dimensional kaleidoscope of brilliance within her.

The brilliance within all of us--His favored creation.

For he has made everything beautiful in its time. 
He has set eternity in the hearts of men, yet no one can fathom what
God has done from beginning to end.  Ecclesiastes 3:11

Why All the Sports? The Answer Surprised Even Me

2013 Seahawks

Life in our family of seven has been particularly hectic these days, and I have one good reason for it: youth sports.  We've been consumed with sports of late, with children playing on a junior baseball team, an older baseball team, and a tween softball team.  My husband coaches two of these teams, thus requiring much in the way of behind-the-scenes equipment juggling, scheduling shuffling, and pep talks.

That's six games per week for anyone who's counting, which comes to roundabout fifty games crammed into the nights and weekends of two already-busy school months, plus the bimonthly Sunday workouts of the triathlon team that the kids started in early April.

2014 Marlins

2011 Mets

2014 Rays

So why would we subject ourselves to this much in the way of sports?  This question was posed to me last month, and between repeated kamikaze Chick-fil-A drive throughs, mass purchases of Goldfish and Gatorade, and the hauling of pop-up chairs and snack bags back and forth across the red, ubiquitous sand, I've been mulling it over ever since.  In LBK (life before kids), I was a grant writer for the National Alliance for Youth Sports, so I guess you could say that I was a professional on reciting the laundry list of why youth sports are important for kids.  Lifelong lessons in team building, good sportsmanship, physical fitness, and camaraderie rank at the top of this list.

However, not one of those is my reason for the grueling sports schedule we have willingly brought upon ourselves. 

Why then, you ask?


2013 Area Tallahassee Aquatic Club (ATAC)

2029 MVP

2014 St. Mark's Duathlon

Here's the thing: I once assumed being a parent meant that I would have a front-row seat to watching my kids grow up.  I believed I would be there to see the small moments, the daily interactions, the tiny successes and challenges that build into my children and gradually make them into the responsible, mature adults I hope they will be.

I would be the primary witness.

Not necessarily so.



2013 cross country team

2013 Titans

2014 Youth Triathlon Series

Instead, the front row seat is given to others, and I mostly run logistics.  I drop them off at the schoolhouse and the classroom door clicks behind them.  I wonder about their interactions during the span of those seven hours away.  What conversations did they have?  What did they learn?  Did they mind their manners?  Were they frustrated about something?  Did they have an insightful answer or a weak reply or a helpful suggestion? I deposit my children at Sunday school and pick them up again, but do I get to overhear what insights they shared or what they learned while apart from me that hour?

I'll never know these daily details, and frankly the hours spent away from my sight are significant.  I cannot watch huge chunks of their lives firsthand; I only hear the instant replay on the car ride home. 

I am relegated to second, and sadly parts of their childhood are obscured, lived out just beyond the horizon of Mom.

 2012 ATAC

2013 Gulf Winds Summer Track Series

2012 Seahawks

2013 Titans

Ah, but in sports - in sports - that is no longer the case.  It is my moment.  I am not rushing around prepping dinner, folding laundry, giving baths, helping with homework, answering four questions at once, or separated from them by a classroom wall. 

I have the liberty to take my seat, pause for a spell, hold my gaze steady and simply watch. Watch how they support and encourage their friends with tenderness when they fumble the ball.  See how they summon their courage to stand before a huge crowd and dive off the swim blocks in a mad wet rush for first place.  Witness how they strike out miserably, and with dried tear stains streaking their face, gain renewed hope as they walk to the plate once more.  

All the drama and effort of my flesh and blood, my most treasured possessions - I take it all in and come back wanting more.  Hands down, the most delicious hours of my life are spent at the ball fields, tracks, pools, and race courses of this town. 

I measure my kids' growth not by days marked off the calendar or penciled notches on the door, but by the increasing arc of their fly ball from the plate, their ever-accelerating speed on the track, the seconds off the stopwatch in the 100m free, the gradual arm strength to throw the touchdown farther and farther and farther down the field with each passing year.

I sit back comfortably in my portable chair - the yellow birthday present with the pop-up umbrella bought lovingly with kiddie tooth fairy money - then I fold my arms and give myself a squeeze and feel thankful for every glorious moment.

2009 Youth Triathlon Series

2012 ATAC anchor IM relay

2030 UF recruit

And oh the drama of it all.  It's spellbinding to me. 

My son stands quietly in the dugout, pensive and pinched, and I wonder from the bleacher zone what he is thinking. I see how he bows his sweat-stained brow and pauses. He puts his hand to the fence, looks out over the field. I lean in a little.  

Then my heart lifts as a familiar look of total focus crosses his face and determination glints in his eyes. Sure enough, in the next moment, he turns on his heel, confidently picks up his favorite bat, strides past dozens of spectators and hammers a smashing bullet to bring the runners home. 

I take in every minute detail, both subtle and obvious, and shake my head in wonder and appreciation. There is no place I'd rather be.

2014 Yankees

My daughter is only six and has a stitch in her side so badly she can hardly walk as she finishes up the run of her first-ever triathlon.  I helplessly look on, fighting all instincts to run to her, and wonder if she will quit. Somehow she swallows the pain between gulps of air and fast-flowing tears and finds the mental courage to finish strong. She leaps in her daddy's arms at the finish with the jubilation only a conquered challenge can bring.

2006 Red Hills Kids Triathlon

And before I know it, that same fair-haired six year old is an elegant young lady, happily sprinting to the finish without hesitation in the latest race, and suddenly in my heart I know that once I am gone, she will be okay.  In this race of life, she will dig deep and finish strong.  I know not because I was told but because I watched it with my own eyes.

A weight is lifted.

2013 Gladiator Challenge

2006 Red Hills Kids Triathlon

2007 Red Hills Kids Triathlon

2008 Red Hills Kids Triathlon

2012 Freedom Springs Triathlon

2013 ATAC Swim Invitational

Yes indeed, these splish splash, patter-pat, pop up, curve ball, touchdown moments are worth this mama seeking out and savoring. 

Even if the drive through dinner is not.

*A version of this post appeared on the National Alliance For Youth Sports website, seen here.